


Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These...

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 23:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18187022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Inspired by the blurb of Reynardine Potter's Sunshine.Reynardine, I haven't read it yet. I promise I didn't steal anything but the key prompt. But the key prompt was delicious.Mycroft loves watching the Great British Bake Off. Guess why? :)





	Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These...

Later, Greg would admit that it was a turning point in the fragile new friendship he and Mycroft were forging between them. They’d moved from purely professional rendezvous in their early careers, exchanging data in the area where Mycroft’s MI6 focus on foreign terrorist acts overlapped with Greg’s own Met and MI5 domestic terrorism. The there had been the years of “handling” Sherlock between them, two men racing frantically after a teetering, erratic pup, and afterward holing up in their favorite dark little pub to commiserate and drown their sorrows.

Lately they’d cautiously started something else…something Greg suspected had more sexual potential than either of them was ready to admit yet. But they had stepped outside the tight, encroaching frame of a professional relationship. They occasionally jogged together. Greg would call to see if Mycroft was working as late as he himself was—and offer to bring by takeout when he was free. Mycroft would call Greg to ask if he was interested in a cabaret singer, and when Greg was would offer to make them both reservations at the club the artist was performing. Then, gently, without comment, they began meeting at each other’s flats to do nothing but what, in his distant teens, Greg would have called “hanging out.”  


It was a learning experience. Mycroft was stunned to learn that Greg played superb acoustic guitar in the classic Spanish manner. Greg found out that Mycroft ran five miles a day on the most boring treadmill—when he could have been swimming in the basement pool of the Diogenes Club, across Pall Mall from his own flat.

Greg was amused to discover Mycroft was one of the millions of fans of “The Great British Bake-Off.” It seemed out of character, somehow: the cool, crisp professional man curled up in front of the telly, eyes glowing, pot of tea and bakery biscuits at the ready, hair already mussed and shoes already off, revealing long, slim feet in elegant silk socks.

It wasn’t that Mycroft didn’t cook: he was a very capable bachelor chef. If his cooking seldom ascended to the heights that seemed mainly a matter of being able to afford to have real chefs in three-star restaurants prepare the fancy stuff for him. At home he was perfectly capable of a passable spag-bol, a low, slow beef braised with wine and mushrooms, or a baked chicken and rice.

But he wasn’t a baker. Or at least, Greg had never seen him bake. Mycroft liked his baked goods well enough. But he was most likely to _make_ a meat pie—and while GBBO did do some savory cooking, it wasn’t what it was known for.  
  
Pondering, Greg went to the fridge and cracked a bottle of porter, coming back out to lean in the doorway watching his friend.

Who knew Mycroft was silly? And fluffy? And for God’s sake, cute? Even, maybe, a bit…sexy? In the strangest way?

“What are they making?” he asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Mycroft answered, eyes not leaving the screen. “Sandi and Noel are still faffing about.” He leaned forward to grab his tea mug. The long, long line of his spine was elegant. His shirt rucked up, revealing the white skin of his upper bum and lower back—the exact space a tramp-stamp would fill, if Mycroft Holmes were ever to wear a tramp-stamp. Greg fought back a laugh at the very thought…then wondered.

Yes. He could image Mycroft with a tattoo. Something small, private, personal. Something to let MI6 and Sherlock know he’d died, if that was the only way to recognize him. Where would he put it? The inside of his arm? The turn of his thigh? Somewhere a killer would not think to look, even if they wrecked his face and knocked out all his teeth and cut off his hands to obliterate his identity…

And that, he thought with a shiver, was Mycroft in a nutshell: fluffy and cute and silly—and cold, and strong, and brilliant—and brave in so many quiet ways no one could even begin to guess without knowing far more than most people would ever know.

“It’s bread week,” Mycroft continued, unaware of his friend’s moody thoughts. He sat back up and crossed his legs, cradling the mug in large hands, his long fingers wrapping around the china. He tood a deep draught of the tea and sighed happily, then he leaned forward again quickly, grabbing a biscuit and dunking it. “Look, look—Paul’s smirking. He’s got something evil on!”

Greg drifted in, and sat on the arm of the sofa opposite Mycroft. “Oh, aye. So he does. Yeast coffee cakes.”

“Tricky. Contestants always go overboard with sweet yeast breads. They forget the sugar and fruit and all make them hard to rise.”

Greg grunted agreement, though he was only vaguely aware of the refinements. He glanced over at Mycroft, smirking as the judge Paul Hollywood smirked.  
  
“Eh, you’re a right bastard, aren’t you? You and Hollywood, having a grand old time taking it out on the innocents.”

Mycroft shrugged, and grinned. “It’s not life or death. I can afford my glee. And Paul’s a sly one.” His tone was admiring, but he relaxed a bit as the two judges left the tent.

The next ten minutes were spent in easy analysis of the mistakes being made—and the flashes of brilliance shown.

“Saffron cream filling in a brown-sugar bunt. That’s simple, but it could work.”

Greg had no opinion. It all looked promising to him at the start, and less so as the cooks scrambled and fretted. By the time the yeast cakes were all turned out, he felt like he’d lost his sweet-tooth. So much work. So much stress…

And the judges were back—Mycroft sitting up straight again, hands around a fresh cup of tea again, eyes sparkling. He laughed at the quips, made small sympathetic sounds at the criticisms, and when one contestant got a hand-shake he sighed, contentedly.

“A Hollywood handshake. He’ll remember that.”

Greg looked at him, amused, a thought suddenly occurring.

“Oi—you don’t just watch this for the baps and the cakes, do you?”

Mycroft looked at him, froze in place, then quickly looked away…blushing.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“That Hollywood fellow—got a fancy for him, don’t you?”

Mycroft’s nose tipped up. “He’s well enough. Good looking, if you like that type. A professional in his field. But he’s hardly there through most of the show. You see more of Noel and Sandi, for heaven’s sake, and you’re not accusing me of fancying them!”

“Yeah, well you’re not glowing when they hand out a handshake, are you? What do you mean, ‘that type’?”

Mycroft didn’t look at him, but said, “He’s just…attractive. In a particular way.”

“Mmmmm?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, look for yourself. Even if you are straight, you must see it!” He was annoyed, tart, even a bit stroppy. “There are men and women all around the world sighing for that man!”

Greg snorted. “I’m bi, thanks ever so, and I don’t see it. Long in the tooth, chunky, and as blue collar as me. What’s with that, anyway? Bit of rough? Poor man’s silver fox? Or is it the bread thing: ‘Ooh, he must have good hands, kneading all that dough…’” When Mycroft flushed pink, he choked on the laughter. “Bugger. You are sweet on ‘im!”

“I am not!”

“Are.  Though what you see in him…”

“If you don’t know, look in the mirror. Maybe then you’ll get it,” Mycroft snapped…then went white.

The silence grew between them.

“Oh.”

Mycroft ducked his head…and said nothing.

Greg let himself slip from the arm of the sofa, to the actual seat cushions—a stunned avalanche of suddenly clued-in copper.

“Oh,” he said again. “I didn’t think…”

“No. You didn’t.” Mycroft was annoyed, and embarrassed, and sharp with the pain of unwanted revelation.

They were silent a bit longer. Greg kept his eyes on the screen as the technical event played out.

“Poor lad forgot to separate his eggs,” he said, partway through.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “The texture’s going to be all wrong.”

More silence. Then…

“I…he’s not so bad. I guess.”

“No.” A long pause, and then, “You’re much more fit, you know.”

“Copper, not a baker. I get less doughnuts and more time chasin’ suspects.” Greg smiled to himself and added, “Good for the abs, quads, and glutes.”

After a very long silence Mycroft murmured, with patent insincerity, “I hadn’t noticed.”

“No. Daresay.”

“And it’s ‘fewer.’”

“What?”

“Fewer doughnuts, not less.”

“Picky, picky, picky.”

“I am, rather. Only the best…”

Greg spluttered, and shot Mycroft the stink-eye down the sofa. “You’re a bad, bad man, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft contemplated his mug of tea, and clearly braced himself to take a risk. “I am, I truly am. What are you going to do about it?”

Greg looked at the man at the end of the sofa…

Cute. Silly. Even a bit sexy, maybe. And fond of silver foxes…

“Is that the only reason you watch this show?”

“No. There’s the competition. And the humor. And I’ve quite enjoyed both Mel and Sue, and now Sandi and Noel. They banter well. But…” He smirked. “Paul’s definitely a motivating factor.”

“Mmmm.” Then, laughing softly, Greg said. “Ok. Here’s what I’m going to do about it.” He held out his hand. “The patent Lestrade handshake.”

Mycroft considered the hand, brows raised. He put down his mug, and held out his own hand. “I’m honored.”

Greg gripped tight, and pulled—and Mycroft, after a moment’s resistance, allowed himself to be hauled down the sofa, coming to lean happily against Greg’s chest.

They looked at each other, and broke into laughter.

But it was right. It was perfect. They watched the rest of the show curled together, feeding each other biscuits and tea, and when it was over, they snogged. And from then on the Great British Bake Off was one of Greg’s favorite shows, too…because how could he resist being found handsomer than the Great Paul Hollywood?


End file.
